guitar with me since the small space is set aside only for singing. I reach for the full bottle of water left beside my stool and straighten just as Trace strips off his black hoodie, revealing only a white wife-beater shirt underneath. And muscles…lots of muscles.
Fortunately, he seems to be concentrating on the sheet of music in front of him because I know I’m gawking right now. His body is nothing short of amazing. I know from the video I saw last night that he is ripped, but seeing it in person is a whole other story. His biceps bulge and his broad shoulders narrow down to his taut stomach, where I clearly recall a defined six-pack is hiding. I’d like to see that in person.
“Here you go.” He hands me a piece of paper and I attempt to conceal my obvious appraisal of his body. His cocky wink tells me I’m not doing a good job of it.
“What’s this?” I ask him, glancing at the sheet. There are lines scratched through lyrics and new ones replacing those that have been crossed out.
“Changed things up a little,” he shrugs his shoulders and chuckles. “Let’s call it artist overrule. You game?” he asks.
After I read it over, I look up to find those blue eyes watching me intently. He’s right, we should have a say in what we’re singing. Looks like neither of enjoy having the label tell us what to do. “Always,” I say and he gives me his signature wink.
Xavier comes across the mic, asking us if we’re ready. Trace nods, still staring at me, and I’m thankful the room behind the glass has emptied out—it’s only Xavier and Dre from the looks of it. My mom has disappeared, along with the other members of Trace’s crew. I laugh to myself at the thought of her out there waiting for me with all of them. She probably has her head glued to her phone anyway.
The sound of heartbeats fills the room and I focus on the words as Trace begins to rap, raising my eyebrows at the words “lil’ country girl.” Someone has been changing things up. I get through my part without any problems, although I know this is just the beginning—it’ll require several takes to get it right. Just as I predicted, the guys stop us and ask us to start again from the top. When Trace gets going again, his eyes veer toward mine as he starts to rap:
There ain’t nothing okay about this, I swear
The way I think about your body
your face, your hair
Every time you laugh
I wanna break down and cry
I know I’ll never be the one
To be by your side
The whole time he’s looking right at me, as though the words were written for me. I gulp around a large golf ball-sized lump in my throat, unable to hide the connection I fell between us. By the time I notice him raise his eyebrows, it’s too late. I missed my part.
Flustered, I try to find where I’m supposed to be in the song and Xavier laughs through the mic. “Man, it’s gettin’ all kinds of hot in there,” he says and I can feel the flush on my face. “Alright, let’s start again. T, start with that verse. You ready, girl?” All I can do is nod my head, willing myself to get through this without embarrassing myself. After today, I probably won’t see him again anyway, except maybe at the next award show.
A few hours later and a zillion butterfly flutters, we finally make it through to the end. After the closing instrumentals, Trace says softly, “But I still ain’t never seen a horse in the ghetto.” I have no idea if that was part of the song or not since it’s not on my sheet, but I forget about it entirely when he gives me a breathtaking smile, revealing a perfect set of pearly whites.
Xavier bursts into the room. “You guys killed it!” He embraces me in a tight hug, completely taking me by surprise. I stiffen slightly before eventually relaxing in his arms.
“Yeah,” Trace murmurs, and when I peek over Xavier’s shoulder, I see Trace looking at me strangely before he quickly diverts his attention toward the door.
“Shall we?” Trace
Fortunately, he seems to be concentrating on the sheet of music in front of him because I know I’m gawking right now. His body is nothing short of amazing. I know from the video I saw last night that he is ripped, but seeing it in person is a whole other story. His biceps bulge and his broad shoulders narrow down to his taut stomach, where I clearly recall a defined six-pack is hiding. I’d like to see that in person.
“Here you go.” He hands me a piece of paper and I attempt to conceal my obvious appraisal of his body. His cocky wink tells me I’m not doing a good job of it.
“What’s this?” I ask him, glancing at the sheet. There are lines scratched through lyrics and new ones replacing those that have been crossed out.
“Changed things up a little,” he shrugs his shoulders and chuckles. “Let’s call it artist overrule. You game?” he asks.
After I read it over, I look up to find those blue eyes watching me intently. He’s right, we should have a say in what we’re singing. Looks like neither of enjoy having the label tell us what to do. “Always,” I say and he gives me his signature wink.
Xavier comes across the mic, asking us if we’re ready. Trace nods, still staring at me, and I’m thankful the room behind the glass has emptied out—it’s only Xavier and Dre from the looks of it. My mom has disappeared, along with the other members of Trace’s crew. I laugh to myself at the thought of her out there waiting for me with all of them. She probably has her head glued to her phone anyway.
The sound of heartbeats fills the room and I focus on the words as Trace begins to rap, raising my eyebrows at the words “lil’ country girl.” Someone has been changing things up. I get through my part without any problems, although I know this is just the beginning—it’ll require several takes to get it right. Just as I predicted, the guys stop us and ask us to start again from the top. When Trace gets going again, his eyes veer toward mine as he starts to rap:
There ain’t nothing okay about this, I swear
The way I think about your body
your face, your hair
Every time you laugh
I wanna break down and cry
I know I’ll never be the one
To be by your side
The whole time he’s looking right at me, as though the words were written for me. I gulp around a large golf ball-sized lump in my throat, unable to hide the connection I fell between us. By the time I notice him raise his eyebrows, it’s too late. I missed my part.
Flustered, I try to find where I’m supposed to be in the song and Xavier laughs through the mic. “Man, it’s gettin’ all kinds of hot in there,” he says and I can feel the flush on my face. “Alright, let’s start again. T, start with that verse. You ready, girl?” All I can do is nod my head, willing myself to get through this without embarrassing myself. After today, I probably won’t see him again anyway, except maybe at the next award show.
A few hours later and a zillion butterfly flutters, we finally make it through to the end. After the closing instrumentals, Trace says softly, “But I still ain’t never seen a horse in the ghetto.” I have no idea if that was part of the song or not since it’s not on my sheet, but I forget about it entirely when he gives me a breathtaking smile, revealing a perfect set of pearly whites.
Xavier bursts into the room. “You guys killed it!” He embraces me in a tight hug, completely taking me by surprise. I stiffen slightly before eventually relaxing in his arms.
“Yeah,” Trace murmurs, and when I peek over Xavier’s shoulder, I see Trace looking at me strangely before he quickly diverts his attention toward the door.
“Shall we?” Trace
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